


When the Morning Light Shines In

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: But this is still G rating, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Idk there's a moment, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Pining, Swearing, but not really, confused Geralt, so make of that what you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22069819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier can’t think of any point in their travels together where he has woken up before the other man. In mornings where they were surrounded by trees, or half-way up a stupid, fucking mountain because of a stupid, fucking quest posed to them by some stupid, fucking man, he’ll always wake to the sound of Geralt moving around: whether it’s rolling up his own tent, or taking his blades to a whetstone, or fixing the last of Roach’s gear. He remembers Geralt telling him about not being able to sleep. Until then, he supposed, Witchers might not have needed it. Then again, until he met Geralt, he can’t say for certain that he knew exactly what a Witcher did and didn’t need.He can’t think of any point in their travels together where he has woken up before the other man – except for now.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 70
Kudos: 1512





	When the Morning Light Shines In

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I know that someone is probably out of character; but I'm here to present to you Softies who are low-key freaking out over feelings. 
> 
> *Tosses it into the pit*
> 
> Have at it, you animals.

Jaskier can’t think of any point in their travels together where he has woken up before the other man. In mornings where they were surrounded by trees, or half-way up a stupid, fucking mountain because of a stupid, fucking quest posed to them by some stupid, fucking man, he’ll always wake to the sound of Geralt moving around: whether it’s rolling up his own tent, or taking his blades to a whetstone, or fixing the last of Roach’s gear. He remembers Geralt telling him about not being able to sleep. Until then, he supposed, Witchers might not have needed it. Then again, until he met Geralt, he can’t say for certain that he knew exactly what a Witcher did and didn’t need. 

He can’t think of any point in their travels together where he has woken up before the other man – except for now.

Wakefulness comes slowly; tentatively stepping into the room like the watery morning light trying to fight its way in through the window. Their room looks out on to the small livery yard, belonging to the inn, and in the horizon beyond, he can see the sun starting to peer over the mountains. When light comes in, it sneaks and crawls along the floorboards, reaching for the bottom post of the bed; trying very much not to wake anything in its path – and _shit, that’s a good line_. If a firm Witcher’s arm wasn’t slung across his waist, keeping him pinned, he would write it down. _Fuck it_ , Jaskier sighs into his pillow. _I’ll remember_.

Even though he moves only an inch, there’s a hum of soreness that ripples up through his spine. His skin is set alight as memories from last night whisper back; appearing in front of him like afterimages.

One of the first things he noticed when he woke up was how warm he was. Over on the other side of the room, embers are dying in the hearth, smothered by grey ash and smoke billowing up through the chimney. The Northern Territories are very rarely warm. Even the summers, although the sun tends to hang high in the sky on some good days, it can be hidden away by shields of thick cloud. But the air inside the room was just the right kind of warm, a kind that buried right into Jaskier’s bones.

The body behind him helps, too. He didn’t know what to expect from Geralt – the man puts on such an icy and cold front, that Jaskier only assumed the same could be said about his body. But all that comes from Geralt’s skin is heat. Most of the sheets and comforters had been kicked down towards the foot of the bed during the night. A light, white sheet lies over their hips. Even with nothing much to cover them, Jaskier still feels so warm. Something that makes his eyelids heavy and his muscles lax.

Jaskier lets his eyes slip shut again, burrowing back into the body behind him; praying to any god or spirit around that time could stop, so they didn’t have to go anywhere.

But once he’s awake, Jaskier finds it hard to go back to sleep. Instead, after a few moments of listening to the small town outside slowly begin to rouse, he tries his best to turn around – Geralt’s vice-grip on him making it none the easier – and face the other man. Distantly, he wonders how many people have seen him like this. Asleep, out of this world, and vulnerable. In their nights spent in the wilds, either on plateaus of grassland or sheltered by standing trees, Jaskier always noted that Geralt, when he did choose to sleep, never really allowed himself to go that deep into it. There was a good enough point to it – a monster would lurk in the shadows, ready to pounce. And Geralt had to be ready.

But even in nights spent in an inn, he wondered if Geralt felt it safe enough to sleep that bit deeper; knowing that vagabonds or sell-swords could be around.

It’s an odd word to associate with Geralt – vulnerable. Jaskier, for all of his word-smithing, isn’t really sure if it’s the right word to use at all. Geralt, although looking fairly asleep now, would probably be awake within seconds if someone, or something, were to barge through the door.

And gods, he hopes not. Jaskier spares a quick glance at the locked door for safety sake. He doesn’t know when he’ll have an opportunity to see this again. And he wants it committed to memory.

Or, because he knows how much it’ll annoy the other man, maybe a ballad.

“I can hear you thinking, bard.”

Jaskier looks up. Two amber eyes stare back at him, only a few inches away. A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. “Sorry. I’ll turn it down, then. I know how much you seem to want your beauty sleep.”

He doesn’t get much of a reply. But then again, when does he from Geralt? Jaskier tilts his head, watching the Witcher settle back against the bedding and be pulled back further into sleep. Out on the landing, other residents in the inn are rousing and starting to leave for whatever it is that they need to do. Something makes Jaskier shuffle against Geralt’s side; they’ll have to leave soon. With winter slowly starting to creep in, the days are getting shorter, and the nights longer. There’s only a certain amount of time where they can spend walking along the roads.

And the more time they spend here, doing whatever it is they’re doing now, because Jaskier isn’t quite sure, the less time they’ll have moving on to Geralt’s next contract. Whatever that is. 

“This might be the longest stretch of time you’ve spent in silence, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is nothing more than a rasping hum. “I can’t even get a moment’s peace during the night because of your sleep-talking.”

Jaskier’s brow creases with a frown. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

Geralt huffs. “Yes, you do.”

And he could very well blame it on the fact that the room is warm, as is the body he’s pressed against, or memories coming back to him from last night are starting to be dug up like spring soil ready for sewing, but Jaskier can feel a flush blooming across his face and the back of his ears.

Thank the gods for Geralt having his eyes closed, then.

Before the Witcher can have an opportunity to look, Jaskier buries his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck. A movement the other man doesn’t shy away from.

After a few moments, Geralt rubs a hand over his face, wiping the last trace of sleep away. Jaskier feels like he has to mourn it, because within seconds, Geralt has displaced him from his warm spot, swinging his legs out from bed and sitting on the edge.

Pillowing his head on crossed arms, Jaskier takes a long look along the expanse of Geralt’s back. There doesn’t seem to be a stretch of skin that isn’t marred by some line. Faded white scars sit next to knotted messes of ones – ones that obviously were treated out in the wilds, and didn’t quite heal right. Jaskier’s fingers twitch. He wants to touch them; map them out like a map of stars. He wants to ask the man about each of their stories – if not for his own curiosity, then he could make some excuse about wanting to craft more songs about the Witcher’s past exploits.

But Geralt doesn’t seem too keen on moving just yet. He looks over towards the door to the room, locked and silent. Not one tavern maid had thought to knock or inquire as to where they were yet. Jaskier glances over too, noting with some strange feeling of pride the scattering of clothes that litter the ground. He spies his jacket and a single boot strung over the back of a wicker chair next to a small desk towards one side of the room. Beside it, crumpled on to the floor, is the black, lace-up shirt Geralt is so fond of wearing.

Jaskier lets out some sort of sigh. “So,” he looks over to the other man. “Where to today?”

His answer, for a moment at least, is a non-committal grunt. Geralt stands, wandering over where his underclothes and breeches had landed from the night before. As Jaskier lies back against the plush pillows of the bed, he mourns the sight of a naked Geralt too. Some anxiety-ridden thought picks at the back of his brain. _When are you ever going to see this again?_ And something much worse suddenly looms over him. **_Will_** _this ever happen again?_

For all that Geralt seemed keen for it last night, Jaskier knows all too well how fleeting bed-partners can be. But something was different – for him, at the very least. Jaskier didn’t feel the need to peel himself away from the body beside him when the morning came. He didn’t want the body to move away either. Jaskier puts an arm behind his head, watching clothes slowly get back on to a body he had mapped so well the night before.

After what seems to have been a moon turn, Geralt finally speaks. “No one has offered a contract in a while,” he says simply.

When it becomes apparent that the Witcher isn’t going to finish that trail of thought, Jaskier speaks instead. “Are you going to seek one out?” Because he’ll be on the road again, wandering through another territory after gods know what. And Jaskier will follow, because he’s pretty invested at this point, but he just needs to know what they’re doing.

Geralt thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. Not for now, anyway.”

And that, Jaskier sits up against the headboard of the bed, surprises him. “You’re serious?”

“Taking a few days off,” Geralt worms his way into his shirt, leaving the laces around his neck open for the time being. “I’m...tired.”

 _Tired_. Jaskier tilts his head. But when the other man turns away, starting a search for his boots, in whatever realm they may be in, Jaskier lets his head knock back against the wall behind him. Geralt isn’t physically tired. He was, for a time. But as the morning light starts to get that bit brighter, Jaskier can make out the lines starting to darken the skin around Geralt’s eyes. The tiredness that has settled into his bones won’t go away with sleep. 

He’s so lost in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice that Geralt has wandered back over to the bed, standing by Jaskier’s side of it. Jaskier fixes the sheets, now pooled around his lap. “Your boots are over by the wardrobe-”

“I’m not looking for-” Geralt stops, letting out a long sigh. “Can I talk to you about something?”

 _We literally just had sex a few hours ago, Geralt. You can talk to me about anything_. Jaskier, for one of the very few occasions in his life, makes sure his jaw is clamped shut, so none of those particular words come out. Instead, he nods, settling the other man with the softest look he can manage.

Geralt gestures vaguely. Without saying anything, Jaskier moves his legs – drawing his knees up towards his chest, letting some space appear for Geralt to perch on while he fiddles with the ties of his shirt. The Witcher looks at everything in the room, except for Jaskier. After what seems to be an eternity, Geralt sighs. “You need to understand something, Jaskier,” he says slowly. Lifting a hand, Geralt taps fingers against the centre of his chest. “I don’t...know what _this_ is. You’ll hear that a Witcher doesn’t feel anything. But I do. And it’s...confusing.”

Jaskier loops around his arms around his knees, drawing himself inwards. “Confusing?”

“Irritating,” Geralt gives a half-snarl. “I would very much like to know what it is; only because it seems to creep up on me. And I hate it.”

“You hate being confused,” Jaskier replies. “You don’t hate the feeling of...what you’re feeling. You just hate that you don’t know what _it_ is.”

Outside, a forge’s billows are starting to huff. Blacksmiths shoe horses in the yard, the hammering of steel and iron pings and echoes up towards the room. It’s almost distracting, in a way. Reminding him that the world outside is still trudging on; despite the fact that Geralt seems to be having a mental breakdown over figuring out what _love_ is. Or something similar. Because if it’s the same feeling that has been slowly brewing inside of Jaskier for the past number of weeks, then yeah, Geralt is in for a shock.

The Witcher sighs. It’s a sharp sound, one to break the otherwise quiet of the room. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he looks over to Jaskier. “But, I find myself not knowing what to do with...”

Jaskier gestures vaguely at himself, and the current state of dress they’re both in. “This?”

Something akin to a smile ghosts across Geralt’s lips. “Yes. This.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what to do either.” And it’s true; for all the beds and nights he has shared with the people before Geralt, he can’t think of a single time where he felt whatever it is that has wrapped so snugly around his chest.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jaskier says into the room. Whether it’s to assure Geralt or himself, he isn’t quite sure. But it’s enough to make the other man’s shoulders relax. Jaskier sits forward, letting one of his legs splays out against the mattress. With as much caution as he can manage, he reaches out, letting his fingertips skim along the Witcher’s forearm. Geralt turns his arm, letting Jaskier’s fingers follow the path of a vein down towards his hand.

He isn’t sure who starts it. Who leans into who, or who catches the other’s lips first. But Jaskier does know that is Geralt stops kissing him, he might just die. He lifts a hand, cupping the side of Geralt’s face. His thumb runs along the arch of the man’s cheekbone. It’s nothing more than lips moving against each other, but everything else around them slips away entirely.

But at some point, probably at the first swipe of tongue along the crease of Jaskier’s lips, the world comes back.

Jaskier is the one to break it – although, admonishes himself for doing it. Resting his forehead against Geralt’s, he sighs. “We only paid for this room for a night, you know.”

Gods, does he want to stay. It’s a thought the other man must be having too, because a small smile curls along Geralt’s lips. “Well then,” Geralt presses a small kiss to the arch of Jaskier’s cheekbone. “Get out some coin and we’ll pay for another.”

“I can’t with you-” Jaskier is broken off by a sharp gasp; lips and teeth skim along the length of his neck. A body stronger than his gentles him back, lying down into the downy mattress. He stares straight up at the ceiling, along the cracks and varnish stains of the wood. “I can’t do anything with you _on me_.”

His mind is torn – memories of last night surface, wakening muscles that had been sore not a few minutes ago. But he wants to be present. He wants to commit all of this to memory. He wants it all to feel familiar; how Geralt leans over him on his forearms, positioned on either side of Jaskier’s head. He wants his skin to remember what it’s like to be set alight by the soft press of lips against it. The warmth returns, blanketing them both. Thinking of it, Jaskier moves his legs as best as he’s able, kicking the sheet that had been slung over his hip out of the way. As soon as it’s gone, Geralt slots himself back between Jaskier’s parted legs. A strong hand goes to Jaskier’s thigh, shifting and moving it until one of the bard’s legs is hooked over the small of Geralt’s back.

“If you start something, Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, reaching up to card fingers through the main’s hair, moving it out of the way of his face. “You better finish it.”

Geralt’s answering smile is almost feral. “I’d be more worried about keeping up, bard. You won’t be leaving this bed for a while.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


End file.
